Part One

The mess and mayhem which constituted much of my life in the spring and early summer of 1976 also provided the backdrop for my other preoccupation: finding out more about Buddhism.

Why Buddhism exactly? The consensus during the 1970s was that Wisdom came from the East, at least in the form of any unbroken tradition that might be of practical use. Though there may well have been a few super-cool alchemists hiding away in the forests of Bavaria, a fat lot of use that was to me. I wanted - needed - something solid, cohesive, organised, that I could put into daily practice.

'Organised': that's the word. Buddhism seemed organised. While there was plenty about Hinduism that I found attractive, it came across as crazy, chaotic, wild and disparate. A hotch-potch of inspirations - for me, in other words, more of the same. I'd had enough of all that over recent times. No more mad Dionysian dismemberings, thank you very much. Give me the cool, coherent teachings of Buddhist Apollonia any day.

I was prepared to hit India if that's what was needed. However, I had a directory of alternative groups, and found a whole bundle of Buddhist communities closer to hand. They would be a good start, at least.   

One Saturday afternoon I went to a Tibetan gig at the Buddhist Society, near Victoria in London. The place seemed stuffy, reminding me more of stifled and stifling childhood Sundays at my grandparents', rather than the crazy vitality of the counterculture I was used to. The people, too; stilted, speaking in hushed tones, as if not to disturb the spirits looking down in judgement from dark bookshelves. Was this Dharma Bums, or afternoon cream tea out of a novel by Agatha Christie?

There was, however, in attendance a bona fide Tibetan lama. I'd never seen a lama before in the flesh, and there was something about him that was extremely interesting. As if he didn't really come from here at all. I also listened with interest to the talk going around of starting some kind of Tibetan monastery thing in a big, rundown building near the Lake District. 

The directory gave notice of another Buddhist group which caught my attention. They were western Buddhists, the blurb informed me. Their intention was to present faithfully the foundational teachings of Buddha, but in a way more appropriate for those who came from the west. They also ran weekend retreats. So off I went.

I had never been on a retreat before. As I travelled by train then bus through the Kent countryside, my excitement mounted. And when I eventually found the venue for the weekend I was greeted by a young woman who smiled broadly and looked straight at me. Or through me, more like.

I wasn't used to people looking at me in that way; it was a bit challenging and unnerving. It also made me aware that there might just be something serious going on with the people around here.

The woman had a Buddhist name, as did three of the men on the retreat. The full-on Dharma folk, I deduced. And while two of the men seemed content to get on quietly in the background, the other was anything but. There was a distinctively larger-than-life quality about him. His face was wide, his eyes larger and more striking than even those of the woman. He crackled with energy as he went about the day, like a super-human high voltage battery. His name, I was told, translated as 'Lotus in Hand'.

On the Saturday evening, long after everyone else had retired to bed, Lotus in Hand sat up in the kitchen with another retreatant, a solicitor guy, and me. Over a cup of hot cocoa he regaled us with stories of strange happenings at Glastonbury, UFO sightings, magical goings-on with mantras, and Lama Govinda. Neither of us got a word in edgeways, but who cared? I was blown away. Here was a guy who was doing the Buddhist thing, and it showed. Not only that, he was tuned into all this mystical alternative stuff as well. 

Late Sunday afternoon, I sat on my meditation cushion after the closing meditation and devotional practice. I checked myself out, and realised that I felt different. My awareness had shifted from its stubborn configuration from three days ago. I was lighter, more optimistic, and new feelings of gratitude and self-confidence had emerged. Most miraculously, this change had been effected by my own efforts, not through the fingers-crossed wait-and-see that could characterise consciousness transformation through psychedelic substances. I was quietly elated.

Part Two

Back in Oxford, Tim came up with some blue microdots. Tim was one of the horde of freaks who would happily sit around stoned all day; but mention acid and they would go all funny. Tim's disapproval was barely concealed when I brought up the topic with him: 'I didn't know you were one of them' was the message he transmitted without the need to say a word. Needless to say Tim, who had been a good friend of the commune all told, came up with the goods....

As the spring of 1976 melted into a second blistering summer, I took two more trips. The blue microdots seemed less potent that their black and brown counterparts. Or was it just me? For sure, I was entangled in my own concerns, and it proved impossible to break out of my own shell and truly enter a wider dimension of being.

It's not actually surprising. 'You' cannot transcend 'you'. 'You' cannot force yourself into a state beyond 'you'. 'You', at least that aspect sometimes referred to as ego, is not going to vote for its own annihilation; turkeys don't vote for Christmas. 'You' will cling on for dear life. Many years ago, John Lennon had wisely advised to 'turn off your mind, relax, and float downstream'. Very true, but not always easy to do.... 

Near the end of the second trip, Mottie made an unannounced visit to the house. I hadn't seen him since the commune broke up. It was a warm, sunny early evening, and we sat exchanging news and small talk. Mottie told me about his university application, and how he felt it was the right decision. This friendly yet not very intimate conversation was the level of our connection, I realised, despite our years of communal life together.

As the time drew near for Mottie to leave, he popped a question: "Are you still taking acid?" "Occasionally. Not much." "When was the last time, then?" "Today, actually."

Mottie's jaw dropped. His eyes almost sprung out of his head. His typically owl-like features became ever-more owl-like as he gazed at me in..... surprise?...... shock?..... horror? I think he felt deceived, betrayed even. He had spent the evening chatting away, unaware that he was conversing with a scrambled-brained, lizard-hallucinating madman. All of which was quite untrue, since I was pretty much base-level by the time he turned up on the doorstep.

I was too much for Mottie, off the map. I never saw or heard from him again. 

A few weeks later, French Phil dropped round for a cup of tea. Following the customary catch-up on news and events, I opened the top drawer of my bedside cupboard and took out a small plastic bag. "Here, Phil, these are yours" I solemnly announced, handing over my remaining few microdots. Phil could not manage the expression of an owl, his face was far too chubby; nevertheless, his surprise was on a par with Mottie's from his recent visit.

"Yes, they're yours" I assured him. "I have no use for them any more." 

Phil had taken only one trip before, and that was with his girlfriend courtesy of my own infinite generosity. 'Good' had been his masterly summary of the experience when I asked him how it went. Phil was openly critical of my intention to embrace Buddhism: to him, any organised religion or spirituality was a cult, to which the individual inevitably sold their soul. This acid renunciation was final proof that I had gone off the rails. All the same, he wasn't going to pass up an opportunity like this...

For me, things were clear. Meditation was offering a glimpse of a smooth, clean, directed movement of consciousness. It seemed manageable, leading to a steady expansion and lightening of mind. In contrast, these last two acid trips seemed chaotic, devoid of overall aim or structure, at times grotesque. Doors opened willy-nilly - left, right, centre. I didn't need this. It was time to walk beside the Buddha as guide. The question was: how, precisely, to do it.     Images: Top: The august portals of the Buddhist Society, London

               Centre: Virupa